


amo, amas, amat

by acquiredelfroot (timeandcelery)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mostly Fluff, Non-Explicit Sex, Pet Names, Relationship Study, Romance, Uses Game Lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25385983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeandcelery/pseuds/acquiredelfroot
Summary: “So let’s be foolish,” says Lavellan, warm and so impossibly genuine, and oh, this man will never stop surprising him.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 1
Kudos: 61





	amo, amas, amat

**Author's Note:**

> I replayed Dorian's romance and this fic wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. Follows the DA:I main quest; no Trespasser (yet). 
> 
> Title from the Latin conjugation of "to love."
> 
> (Content warnings for the In Hushed Whispers section, all brief mentions: emetophobia, panic attack, torture.)

It’s not that Dorian doesn’t _notice_ the first time they meet, it’s just that he’s rather busy with the demons, and then fascinated by the mystery of the mark, and then distracted by Alexius’s plot. 

All right, maybe he doesn’t notice. 

When he arrives at Haven to offer his help, though, Lavellan takes the time to personally walk him around the village, and _that’s_ when the unfailingly unhelpful list of men he should not be attracted to gets another entry. The Herald of Andraste. Because why _wouldn’t_ he be. 

Dorian ignores that and instead watches Lavellan scramble up a steep, rocky hill with a surprising level of grace. “Er--what are you doing?” 

Lavellan disappears into the bushes for a moment and then pops out with a green sprig in hand. “Elfroot!”

“You… you do realize that you have _people_ to do that for you?”

Lavellan shrugs and scrambles back down the hillside. “But I’m already here.” 

“I can’t argue with that logic, but don’t we have an assassination plot to outwit? The destructive power of time magic wielded by cultists to avert?” 

“I can’t worry about that now,” says Lavellan, crunching through the snow to cut another plant, “because then I won’t _stop_ worrying about it. So I’ll worry about it tomorrow, when we leave. In the meantime -- elfroot.” 

“You are a very strange man,” says Dorian.

* * *

Of all the ways Dorian had expected their voyage to Redcliffe to go pear-shaped, being thrown a year into a nightmare future was not necessarily one of them. It’s fascinating enough that he can hide his horror behind it, just long enough to get through it. 

Lavellan is either not quite so lucky or not quite so foolhardy. He goes paler and quieter as they find the others, and the poor man is sick in the corner after they find the torture chambers. 

“You doing okay, Lefty?” Varric asks him, voice ringing with red lyrium.

There’s a long pause as Lavellan strings another arrow. “No,” he says, “but we’ll undo this. I trust Dorian.”

Well. There’s an odd concept. He barely knows the man. Granted, the fate of the world does depend on whether he _is_ worthy of that trust, but still, it’s novel. 

And he does work it out, just in time. They stumble back into the present, and Alexius stands down, just like that. Then they have a word with the king, and Dorian is stunned when Lavellan takes the mages on as allies. Pleased, but stunned. 

Then he awkwardly stands by while Lavellan has a panic attack in the courtyard. 

* * *

Back in Haven, Lavellan seems to have recovered. He shuts down the suspicions the others have of Dorian, which is quite nice of him, really, but the seriousness with which he rebuffs them is mildly alarming. It appears that Lavellan legitimately likes and trusts him, after their ordeal. It’s not exactly the outcome he was expecting. 

He _also_ wasn’t expecting Lavellan to come up and, without warning, hug him. 

“Er… thank you?” 

“No, thank _you_ ,” says Lavellan, and is that a touch of pink at the tips of his ears? No, Dorian chides himself. Don’t read into it. Don’t be that foolish. “I’m… not ready to talk about what happened in the future. But we wouldn’t have survived it without you. And--I’m sorry the others are suspicious. They don’t remember what happened. I trust you.” 

There it is again. Such an odd thing. He firmly crushes the part of himself that craves more of it.

The silence gets awkward. “So--how does a Dalish archer come to support free mages?” he asks, to fill it.

“Oh! Um.” He tells Dorian all about his sister the mage, who’s the apprentice to the leader of their clan, and then they have an uncomfortable conversation about elves and, inevitably, the Imperium. 

It had been going so well, too. 

* * *

While the mages prepare, they go to the Hinterlands. Dorian learns a few things about Lavellan, the first of which is that his given name is Faelan. 

No one uses it. Everyone calls him Herald (except Varric, who, not particularly cleverly, calls him Lefty. It’s better than Dorian’s nickname from him, at least). Dorian files the name away and refuses to admit to himself why. 

He also discovers that the elfroot thing was not a one-off, and that Lavellan really doesn’t get along with bears.

After the bears, while they recover at camp, he finds Lavellan reading some awful volume of history. “If they’re going to keep claiming I’m their prophet, I should know _some_ of it,” he says, sounding embarrassed.

Dorian takes the book from him and tosses it over his shoulder. “That’s a noble goal, but you’re not reading that garbage.” 

Lavellan laughs. It’s a lovely sound. Dorian promises to get him a better book.

* * *

He keeps looking over his shoulder. 

Maybe--maybe Lavellan will have made it out. Maybe there will be another miracle. 

It doesn’t take that long for him to give up hope, though, as they trudge through the snow to meet the larger group. No one could have survived an entire mountain falling on them, not even Lavellan. 

It hurts more than it should -- he’d let his feelings get the better of himself after all. When they reach the camp, he allows himself a short dip into self-pity and then resolves to get blind drunk at the soonest opportunity. 

Before he can track down alcohol, if any made it out of Haven in the panic, there’s a clamor from out in the cold. It is, it turns out, Cassandra and Cullen, and Cassandra is carrying-- 

Well. Would you look at that. 

“He’s alive!” Cassandra shouts, and Dorian’s unruly heart leaps in his chest.

* * *

As they settle into Skyhold, Dorian finds a chess set.

He manages to play one round with Cullen, who’s very good, but the man seems determined to work himself to death and doesn't have time for another. Solas outright refuses to play. Sera, when asked, sticks out her tongue and makes a “Pbbbth!” noise, so he guesses that’s not happening either. 

It’s not as if he _wants_ specifically to play with Lavellan. (Alright, maybe a little.) The opportunity that provides itself is just too good, though. 

It turns out that Lavellan is bad at chess. Really, remarkably, adorably bad at chess. “I still don’t understand where all the pieces go,” he says, his frown creasing the tattoos on his forehead. 

“Don’t worry. You have an excellent teacher.”

Lavellan gives him a lopsided smile. “I certainly do,” he says. Then his ears go red. 

How interesting. A bad idea, but interesting.

* * *

“Of course I will, Dorian,” says Lavellan, in that earnest way he has. Dorian originally thought it must be some sort of act, but, no. He really is that disconcertingly helpful. “All you have to do is ask.” It’s as if he’d asked him to borrow a book, not to organize a hunting party for murderous cultists halfway across this frozen country. 

Somewhere in the hellscape of the Hinterlands, Lavellan says, “Call me Faelan. Please.” 

Dorian agrees. What’s one more step down this road he shouldn’t be on? 

* * *

A letter. From his father. Of _fucking_ course. 

And then, because it wasn’t bad enough, his father is _there_ , himself, and Dorian loses his temper. Tells Faelan exactly what his father tried to do. Snarls and shouts and generally has an outburst. 

And at the end of it all, Faelan gives him a look of pure concern and lays his hand on Dorian’s arm and says, “I think it’s time we left.” It’s--a lot kinder than he deserves.

One good thing, though. Well, a bad idea, but good: he doesn’t miss the way Faelan’s ears redden when he talks about “the company of men.” He’s brilliantly unsubtle, and if Dorian had any doubts before, he certainly doesn’t now. 

* * *

Faelan approaches him, when they’re back at Skyhold. He still looks concerned for Dorian, and despite his best efforts, Dorian wants Faelan to be concerned about him. He also wants Faelan in more general terms, but that’s a problem for another day. 

“Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display,” he says, a little afraid of the answer. He cares about Faelan’s good opinion rather a lot. 

Faelan smiles. It’s a stupidly attractive smile. “I don’t think less of you,” he says. “More, if possible.” 

“The things you say…” says Dorian, because it’s true. Faelan just looks at him, eyebrows slightly raised, face going pink.

It’s still a bad idea. Dorian finds that he’s stopped caring about that. “My father never understood,” he begins. “Living a lie, it festers inside of you, like poison. You have to fight for what’s in your heart.” 

Faelan nods and steps forward, not breaking eye contact. “I agree.” 

Then, finally, wonderfully, they’re kissing. Faelan is out of practice but eager, and it’s the best worst thing Dorian has done in a long time, and he doesn’t want to stop. 

He stops. Faelan, flushed a deeper and more endearing pink, blinks at him with a slightly dazed smile on his face. “I see you enjoy playing with fire, Inquisitor,” Dorian says.

* * *

The Inquisitor does, in fact, enjoy playing with fire. He proves it by dragging Dorian off to his chambers as often as he can get away with it. They don’t do anything but kiss, but it’s still--good. Very good. Better than it should be. It moves slowly enough that Dorian has to wonder--does Faelan want more than just the physical? Because he certainly does. Shouldn’t, but does.

It’s a terrible idea, laying his heart out for Faelan to shatter it, but Dorian finds he can’t pull away and he doesn’t want to. The heartbreak will just have to hover, inevitable, somewhere in the future.

* * *

Faelan goes to Val Royeaux without him, which is odd. And Dorian, well. Dorian misses him. Misses his surprisingly gentle kisses and his touch and the crooked smiles sent his way when Faelan thinks nobody is looking. Fasta vass, he’s in too deep. It’s not a revelation. He’s known for a while. It’s just… inconvenient. 

He decides to solve that inconvenience with brandy, and he’s several glasses in before there’s a voice at his elbow. “He misses you, too.”

“Hello, Cole.”

Cole sits, or more accurately perches, on the barstool next to him, looking at Dorian from under his hat. “He would have taken you with, but he couldn’t. I’m not supposed to tell you why. But he did want to. He wants more, too.”

“Does he, now?” 

“You told him you would do something that wasn’t teasing, and he wants that very much. Wants to touch, taste, test the waters, see how deep they go.”

“Well, that’s encouraging.” 

“He wants to see you without clothes on,” adds Cole, and Dorian choke-laughs on his drink at the sheer innocent bluntness of it.

“I can certainly work with that,” he says.

Behind the bar, Cabot groans.

* * *

When Faelan comes back from Val Royeaux, he starts acting--well, as furtive as he’s capable of being, which isn’t much. It’s only a few days before he walks into the library, fiddling with something, and then he hands Dorian the birthright he’d sold. This--this isn’t what he wanted. He doesn’t want to be in Faelan’s debt, and why else would he…

“I did it for _you_ ,” says Faelan, sounding confused. Hurt. 

And Dorian has made an ass of himself, again. He apologizes and takes the necklace and suggests, ever so subtly, that Faelan visit his own quarters soon. 

He knows one way to make it up to him.

* * *

Faelan drops by his quarters, and it turns out that the Inquisitor does in fact want to be bad, but doesn’t know quite where to start. Dorian offers his help, comprehensively. There’s a first time for everything, after all, and Faelan seems very much to enjoy his.

It’s afterward that has Dorian worried, and apparently that shows on his face. 

“You seem a little distracted,” says Faelan.

“Sex will do that. It’s distracting.” 

Faelan gives him a _look_. Right, then. Time to find out how big of a fool he’s being. 

Faelan wants more, too, and Dorian’s heart trips over itself, even as he keeps talking, keeps admitting: that he likes Faelan more than he should, that he’s learned it would be foolish to hope for more.

“So let’s be foolish,” says Faelan, warm and so impossibly genuine, and oh, this man will never stop surprising him. 

It’s less of a realization and more arriving somewhere he’s been going for a while: this is love, isn’t it? He looks at Faelan, who’s open-faced, smiling, sincere. 

Beloved. 

It’s too much for now. Instead, he leans back in and gives Faelan a sly look. “Care to… inquisit me again? I’ll be more specific in my directions this time.”

Faelan laughs. “Show-off.”

* * *

_Vhenan._

The word sticks in Dorian’s head long after Faelan cries it out. A curse? A term of endearment? Something else entirely? He doesn’t find any helpful books on Elvhen in the library, despite the Inquisition being _led by an elf._ (He’ll have to talk to someone about that.) The other option is not actually an option, because there is no way he’s going to ask Solas to translate something the Inquisitor said in bed. 

Then Faelan starts calling him that more and more often, and not just in bed. Once he does it in front of Solas, whose eyebrows skyrocket, and Faelan looks deeply embarrassed. Dorian resolves to ask the next time. 

It doesn’t take long for him to have a chance. They’re laying together, still getting started, when Faelan nuzzles his jawline and murmurs, “Vhenan.”

Dorian props himself on an elbow and risks ruining the mood. “What does that mean?” 

“Oh. Uh.” Faelan goes red, the same bright blush he gets when Dorian whispers something filthy into his ear. It has to be something interesting, then, if it has him this flustered while they’re already naked. “ _Ma vhenan…_ ‘my heart.’” 

Oh. That’s. A lot. Good-- _very_ good--but a lot.

When Dorian doesn’t immediately respond, Faelan tilts his head and smiles, still red-faced. “Too romantic for you?”

Dorian looks at him for a moment, then makes a decision that is, really, inevitable. “Not at all... amatus.”

“And that means…?”

He hesitates, just for a moment, before looking Faelan in the eye. “Beloved.” He can’t regret admitting it, not with the way Faelan’s whole face lights up. Not with the fierceness of his kiss. Not with how much Dorian loves him.

* * *

Dorian knows this man is going to break his heart one day. Then they go into the Fade--actually, physically, into the Fade--and for one icy, awful moment, Dorian thinks that day has come. _This is it. This is where I lose him forever._

Then Faelan stumbles out of the rift after them, and Dorian’s never felt relief like this. 

As they make their way back to the Inquisition’s camp outside the walls, Faelan clutches Dorian’s hand so hard it hurts. Dorian squeezes back--it’s all he can give him, right now. 

They make it to camp and to Faelan’s startled advisors, and Faelan never lets go, even through his explanation of what happened in the Fade. The others must notice, but they don’t comment, and soon enough they’re done, for now. 

Faelan drags Dorian into his tent, mumbling something under his breath. 

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s just--I need--please--” 

He pulls Dorian into a desperate embrace, and Dorian realizes he’s shaking. 

“Let’s get you comfortable,” Dorian says, and finds no resistance as he helps Faelan out of his gear. 

Once he’s down to shirt and trousers, Faelan drags Dorian down into the bedroll and clings to him, breathing hard. Dorian strokes his hair, feeling inadequate for the task at hand. “I’m not going to ask if you’re alright, because that’s obvious enough. What--what do you need, amatus?” Dorian starts reeling off options. “I could provide a distraction. Or we could talk. Or--”

Faelan shakes his head. “Just this,” he says, pressing his face into Dorian’s shoulder. “Just this.”

Dorian holds him.

* * *

Faelan hates Halamshiral. He tries his best to hide it, of course, but Dorian can tell from how he holds himself, how he speaks, how every glance Dorian’s way is laced with fear. 

Dorian, meanwhile, waits in the garden, drinking wine and developing the ludicrous fantasy of sweeping Faelan onto the ballroom floor and finishing their dance with a kiss so thorough that the nobles around them would talk of it in scandalized whispers for _years_. Which would be fun, but Josephine would murder both of them in their sleep for it, and then where would they be?

He settles for teasing Faelan instead. “If you can find me ten silk scarves, I’ve got a dance that will _really_ shock them.” He gets to see Faelan’s ears go bright red, and with any luck, the image will relieve some tension. Or create more, of the sort that Dorian will happily help him with later. Either works.

All in all, Dorian drinks some very good wine and gets to kill some more Venatori, which is always a plus, but by the end of the night Faelan is wound up tight. He does smile, though, when Dorian asks him to dance.

Later, he sneaks into Dorian’s chamber and works out the tension on the silk sheets of an overwrought Orlesian canopy bed. It’s not a bad night.

* * *

The thing about Faelan is that he’s infuriatingly inspirational. Which is to say, Dorian feels a bit useless in comparison. Or a lot useless. 

He knows that being the Inquisitor wears on Faelan. He knows the days are long and the work is thankless. But he sees the world change, regardless. Some days it’s one person at a time, and some days it seems to be entire countries. Faelan didn’t want any of this, Dorian knows that much. But every chance he gets, he tries to make the world better, and often enough, he succeeds. 

He knows exactly what Faelan would say, too, if he could hear Dorian’s thoughts. “You came here to help, Dorian. You’re doing something.” It’s not enough, though, to match the flame of inspiration that Faelan never meant to light in him but did anyway. 

The idea coalesces around that little flame, then: if Faelan can fix the South one step at a time, why _can’t_ Dorian fix his homeland? 

Damn the man for making him this idealistic. And damn the man for giving him such an overwhelming reason to stay. 

* * *

He finally tells Faelan of his plan and watches his heart break in front of him. 

That’s bad enough, but then Faelan gathers himself, blinks back tears, and says, “You’ll do great things, vhenan. I know you will,” and breaks Dorian’s heart too.

This isn’t the end, and he wants Faelan to believe that. He also might be panicking just a little. Regardless, he follows Faelan into his quarters and finds him hunched over his desk. 

“You’re well aware that I’m terrible at confessions,” Dorian says. Faelan turns around, wiping his eyes, and Dorian feels even more like an ass. He soldiers on anyway. “And I’ve been saying I adore you for months now, so I hope it doesn’t come as much of a shock that--well. I love you.”

Faelan smiles, through his tears. “Ar lath ma, Dorian.”

* * *

They survive. Both of them, somehow. Faelan takes his hand, in front of everyone, on the long walk back to Skyhold.

And it’s not that he’s _not_ going to go home and clean the place up. It’s just that he’s going to do it later. There’s too much here to just walk away now.

They’re greeted at Skyhold by a party. Josephine has finally brought out the wines that Dorian’s been trying to get his hands on for months, and there’s enough food to feed, well, an army. There’s drinking and singing and, in the middle of it all, Faelan, looking slightly overwhelmed but very happy. 

He wanders over to talk to Dorian, who’s still marveling that they’re both alive. Now it’s time to tell Faelan about his new plan. “I’ve decided to stay with the Inquisition. For now,” he says. 

“You will?” Faelan’s face lights up. 

“There’s no you in Tevinter. What else matters?” Faelan grins and throws his arms around his neck, and Dorian steals a quick kiss. He doesn’t particularly care if anyone notices. “Go enjoy your party. I’ll find you later.”

“Is that a promise?” 

“Of course, amatus.”  
  


* * *

Dorian keeps his promise, finding Faelan as he approaches the door to his quarters. “Going somewhere, amatus? You didn’t think one brief chat would be enough, did you?”

Faelan laughs. “You do know we have all the time in the world now.”

“You say that, but I’m not waiting until the sky splits open again.” He grins and puts his hands on Faelan’s chest, shoving him backward through the door. Faelan looks startled for a moment, then smiles too. 

When they reach the top of the stairs, Faelan gives him a long, soft look, as if he’s deciding what to say next. Dorian, feeling mischievous, forestalls him. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you have all the things to say.”

Faelan, who does, opens his mouth to speak. 

“Two things in private, before you run off.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Faelan murmurs, a smile tugging at his mouth.

Undeterred, Dorian continues. “First, you are terribly dull, and I hate you.” 

Faelan grins, then turns and crosses to the balcony. “And what’s the second?” he asks.

Dorian follows him, mischief tempered with a rush of affection, and wraps his arms around Faelan’s waist, settling his head on his shoulder. The mountain sunrise spreads out before them, bright and clear. “I hope this ends soon.”

He can feel Faelan’s laugh rumble in his chest. “I hate you too, vhenan. And we have as much time as we want to hate each other.”

Dorian squeezes him a little tighter. “Might I interest you in moving this hatred to your bed?”

“You have only to ask.”


End file.
